


36 Degrees

by forallthegodsdeparted



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Bunk Sex, M/M, PWP, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 14:43:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15293754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forallthegodsdeparted/pseuds/forallthegodsdeparted
Summary: “You are not thinking about sex,” Frank says incredulously, eying the progression of Gee’s hand.“Um,” Gerard supplies. He’s maybe thinking about sex. Definitely thinking about sex, a little. Or a lot. Okay, so the sight of a sweaty Frank lying spread-eagle on the bed naked save for a pair of thin briefs clinging damply to his junk is kinda getting Gerard going. Fucking sue him.





	36 Degrees

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story are just that: characters. They are based only loosely on actual people and events and this story is not meant to represent reality in any way, shape, or form. Harassing band members or their families online or in person is gross. 
> 
> Alternate title: SoCal summer is brutal and I'm processing my apartment being over 100 degrees through writing fanfic.

“ _God_ , what the _fuck?_ ” Frank shouts for the sixth time that morning, kicking a leg up into the air in frustration. He shifts around _again_ but to no avail; he’s already managed to lie on every spot on the couch that wasn’t burning up and there’s no fucking _air_ circulating on the bus to cool it back down. Bob scrubs a hand over his eyes.

“Will you fucking shut your pansy ass up, Iero?” he snaps from where he’s sitting on the floor, propped up against the couch. “We all know it’s hot, just fucking grow a pair and deal with it like the rest of us.” Hot is an understatement. _Hot_ is the beach in August, or a cup of coffee, or a _fire_. _This_ is fucking Los Angeles in the dead of summer: eighty-five degrees before noon, zero breeze, zero percent cloud cover, and a busted fucking A/C unit in the metal tour bus. Frank turns and scowls at him.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” he asks.  

“ _You’re_ what’s wrong with me.”

“Maybe you’re what’s wrong with this whole fucking _bus_ —”

“It’s the heat,” Gerard interrupts blandly. He’s stretched out on the floor, hair askew, one arm flung across his eyes like he can’t entertain the sight of any of them. “Can we just—can everyone just fucking chill? I already have a headache, sound check’s not even for three hours.”

“No,” Frank says, standing up abruptly. He stomps back to the bunks, slamming the door hard behind him, leaving a wake of dead air and raised eyebrows.

“He’s PMS-ing,” Bob says.

“He’s hot,” Gerard mutters, jiggling one foot experimentally to see if it’ll make a breeze. It doesn’t.

“Whatever. I’m leaving,” Bob huffs, heaving himself up with a hand on the arm of the sofa. “I’ll meet you assholes at sound check.” He grabs his discarded shirt off the table on his way out, pulling it haphazardly over his head.

“It’s worse outside,” Gerard calls after him.

“No it’s n—” The door closes before he finishes. Gerard takes a deep breath and lets it out in a long groan. He gropes around for his phone, pulls it out from under his own ass, and flips it open to text Mikey: _where u at?_

A few seconds pass, and Mikey replies: _w/ FOB they have ac._

Gerard squints at the pixels, smirks, types _have fun_ , closes his phone, and tosses it again. Frank’s not wrong. It is really hot. Really _fucking_ hot, like, the kind of hot where the only thing you can do is lay in front of six fans and think about how miserable you are. Ray’s gone as well, off partying with someone or other, the kind of thing Gerard might have been doing if he wasn’t fucking sober. He groans again, arching off the floor to peel off his sweat-soaked shirt and hurtle it at the opposite wall. It would be so much easier not to die from heat stroke if he didn’t feel so weird and self-conscious about taking his shirt off in front of the other guys. Not Mikey, he’s fine, obviously. With Frank he’s getting there. Speaking of Frank, Gerard thinks, he should probably go check on him and make sure he hasn’t passed out or punched a hole in the side of the bus. He climbs to his feet, shakes himself out, and stumbles a little on the way to the back, feeling foggy and dehydrated and weird. _Can people die from this?_ he wonders. When he reaches the door to the bunks he rests his cheek on the lukewarm plastic and knocks softly.

“What?” comes Frank’s petulant voice from the other side.

“Damage control,” Gerard says into the crack, hand on the knob. It’s unlocked, but he feels like he should ask to come in.

“’Fuck does that mean?” Gerard has no idea what it means, it was just something to say. But Frank’s voice is gentler this time, like he might be smiling, and Gerard takes that as permission to enter. He opens the door and—holy fuck—it’s somehow worse in here. All the lights are off and Frank’s lying in his bunk on the bottom left, stripped down to his briefs with a fan fixed directly on him, but there’s no ventilation, like, it might actually be a health hazard.

“Frankie,” Gerard starts, leaving the door open behind him because whoever Frank’s trying to avoid is gone now anyway, “you’re gonna die in here.”

“Good,” Frank says, blinking at Gerard. “The sooner the better.” Gerard rolls his eyes and leans against the door frame.

“Come on, what’s wrong?” he says, crossing his arms.

“Nothing,” Frank insists.

“ _Frank—_ ”

“I swear to god it’s nothing, I’m just fucking hot. And I hate California.” Gerard uncrosses his arms.

“I know,” he says, one side of his mouth pulling up. Frank always gets twitchy when they’re on the West Coast for too long—too much sun, too much excess, too many beaches. Too much LA smog. “Is there anything I can do to help?” Frank blows a stray piece of dyed-black hair out of his eyes dejectedly.

“Come here?” he says, sounding hopeful.

“Seriously?” Gerard raises his eyebrows, but pushes off the doorframe all the same because he hasn’t been able to tell Frank “no” in years. “You know this is gonna be hotter.” Frank just shrugs, and Gee rolls into the bunk next to him. Frank turns his head to face him.

“Close the door?”

“Everyone’s gone,” Gerard reasons. This is ridiculous—now his body is blocking the breeze from the fan, Frank’s gotta be sweltering.

“It’s fine,” Frank says, apparently reading Gerard’s mind. Gerard fidgets around, rests a hand on Frank’s chest, trying for comforting. Frank gets into these weird moods where all he wants to do is curl up in some dark, cramped space and write poetry on his laptop. But it’s too hot for a laptop, so Gerard does the best he can—at least, the best he can when Frank’s shirtless and pantless, overheated, and a little pissed off. _Shit_ , Gerard thinks, letting his hand roam idly over Frank’s pecs, his shoulders, his biceps, back to his chest. Frank’s been working out this summer, more out of boredom than anything, but hell, it’s...working for him. And for Gerard. His hand migrates downward, fingertips ghosting over Frank’s abs, his hipbones and the muscles surrounding them.

“You are _not_ thinking about sex,” Frank says incredulously, eying the progression of Gee’s hand.

“Um,” Gerard supplies. He’s maybe thinking about sex. Definitely thinking about sex, a little. Or a lot. Okay, so the sight of a sweaty Frank lying spread-eagle on the bed naked save for a pair of thin briefs clinging damply to his junk is kinda getting Gerard going. Fucking sue him.

“Gee,” Frank groans, covering his eyes, “we’ll literally get heat stroke. Like, we’ll pass out and they’ll find us dead, mid-fuck.”

“No we won’t, I’ll just do you, ok?” Gerard coos, tracing the words inked across Frank’s stomach. Frank’s abs twitch. “Just hands, you don’t even have to move.” Frank raises an eyebrow at him, trying for disdain, but his dick’s already pressing against the translucent white of his underwear. Gerard wiggles his eyebrows. “Might make you feel better.” Frank closes his eyes, snorts.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” he mutters, shaking his head. He runs a hand through his hair. “Alright, if you want.” Gerard smiles wider.

“I want to, so badly,” he says, sliding his hand down Frank’s sweat-slick belly to rest over the front of his briefs. Gerard squeezes slightly, palm folding over the curve of Frank’s slowly-hardening dick. “I wanna fucking...jack you off and lick all the fucking sweat off your body while I do it.” He begins slowly moving his hand, massaging Frank’s cock through the thin, damp fabric. Frank’s mouth falls open to take a short, stuttering breath.

“’S way too hot for that,” Frank manages, but shifts his hips around, and raises his arms to grab either elbow over his head.

“I know,” Gerard murmurs, scooting closer to bring his mouth to Frank’s shoulder, the sting of salt sharp on his lips. “It’s kind of sexy, huh?”

“What is—” an involuntary moan escapes his lips when Gerard slides his hand under his waistband to close around his dick, “— _wrong_ with you?” Gerard giggles. He scoots down the mattress, lips gliding over Frank’s chest to close around a nipple and sucking gently, getting a little whimper in return. He keeps his hand moving sticky and slow over Frank’s erection, Frank’s thighs tensing every time Gerard’s palm catches on the ridge of his dick. Gerard sucks harder and Frank bucks; Gerard has to stop to readjust himself in his shorts because holy _shit_ the soft grunts and moans escaping Frank’s lips are going straight to his dick. He removes his hand (“Ge _rard_ ,” Frank chokes out in protest), grabs Frank’s waistband, and tugs it down, just far enough to get his cock out.

“Better,” he murmurs, pausing to lick the length of his hand and steal a glance at Frank’s pretty, sweaty, flushed face before taking his erection in hand and pumping steadily now, hot skin sliding over hot, wet skin.

“Fuck,” Frank grunts—little wisps of his hair are plastered to his face, and sweat is pooling in the hollows of his neck. Gerard leans forward to lick a long stripe up his throat, to taste it, and when Frank arches off the mattress he latches on to a spot and sucks, sucks hard.

“Frank,” Gerard mumbles into his neck on his way to marking another spot with a dark bruise, “god, fuck, you look fucking good.” Frank just moans, his chest heaving and shiny with sweat, cock flushed deep red in stark contrast to the white of his briefs that are bunched up, pressing against his balls. Gerard sucks again, right over Frank’s scorpion, and slides his hand up to jack Frank faster, palm sliding over his slick head on every stroke. Frank takes a sharp breath through his nose.

“ _Gerard_ ,” he manages through gritted teeth. Gerard’s eyes are buried in his hair but suddenly Frank’s gripping his thigh, fingers digging in like claws, and Gerard feels his whole body tense up beside him. They’re both sweating completely through their underwear by now; it’s a billion fucking degrees in the bunk, the air is wet, smells like summer and sweat and dick.

“Yeah?” Gerard whispers, lips brushing against Frank’s ear. He speeds up his strokes again, and fuck, _nothing_ is better than the sounds Frank makes when he’s coming apart underneath him. “Yeah? You gonna come, baby?”

“I—” Frank gasps, “Fuck—oh god, I—fuck, yeah—” He groans loudly, squeezing Gerard’s leg, and the next moment Frank’s dick is pulsing, come is spurting in thick ribbons across Gerard’s hand and Frank’s stomach and thighs to mingle with his sweat, Gerard’s muttered stream of obscenities unfaltering in Frank’s ear.

A few seconds and Frank goes boneless, legs sinking back into the mattress where he’d been tensing them up. His death grip on Gerard’s thigh lessens, and his head lolls sideways. They look at each other for a long moment—both soaking wet like they just climbed out of a bath tub, hair fucking plastered to their faces, bright red and panting, absolutely ridiculous—before Gerard lets out a loud guffaw and Frank’s giggles follow soon after. Gerard lets his hand flop down onto Frank’s stomach, landing with a loud, wet slap, and they both laugh harder. Frank glances down to where Gerard’s half hard in his boxers and says, “Oh, shit, do you want me to—”

“Nah,” Gerard interrupts with a little half-wave, “you were right, it’s way too fucking hot for this, I’m gonna go jerk off in a cold shower.”

“You shower, people ‘r gonna know we were doing it,” Frank says sagely.

“If they can _smell_ they’re gonna know we were doing it,” Gerard points out, gesturing with his eyes at the air around them. “They won’t be back for a while,” he reasons, “I’ll tell ‘em you were in here beating it for the past two hours.” He giggles when Frank swats at him. They lay in silence for another minute; Gerard stares up at the roof of the bunk trying to blink the sweat away.

“Hey,” Frank snorts suddenly. “Did you call me _baby_?”

“Uh,” Gerard says while Frank cackles. Did he? “No?” Frank pinches his side.

“You’re full of shit! You so did.” And yeah, okay, maybe he did.

“Sorry, it, uh, it just slipped out.” Somewhere underneath his many layers of redness from being hot and turned on, Gerard can feel himself blushing. Frank beams.

“You know I can’t fucking stand dirty talk,” Frank says because he’s a liar.

“You love it,” Gerard corrects him, tugging on a strand of his hair. Frank snorts again.

“Whatever. Loser,” he mutters, but when he rolls onto his side to grab Gerard and pull him into an open-mouthed kiss it’s a sweet one, and Gerard can feel how fast his heart is beating against Gerard’s own chest. They only linger for a few seconds because, seriously, it was uncomfortably warm _before_ the impromptu handjob, and when they part they’re both smiling.

“Alright,” Gerard announces, pushing himself up. “I really am gonna go jerk off in a cold shower.”

“Is this what I have to do to get you to bathe?” Frank says, sitting up as Gerard hauls himself out of the bunk. “Not put out?”

“See how long you’d last,” Gerard quips, ducking when Frank aims a pillow at his head. He unearths some shorts from his own bunk and pulls them on. When he looks back up Frank’s sitting there watching him with round eyes, looking flushed and disheveled and, well, really fucking cute, even with come smeared across his belly. (Okay, _especially_ with come smeared across his belly.) The side of his neck is littered with dark red blotches, and Gerard makes a mental note to lend him a bandana when they get dressed later. “Alright,” Gerard says again, “I’m gonna go find showers. I’ll see you later, ok?” He catches a weird glint in Frank’s eyes right before he turns to leave.

“Later, baby,” Frank calls after him, and Gerard doesn’t need to look to see the shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

“Fuck off,” he says over his shoulder, bumping right into Mikey on his way back into the lounge. “Oh, hey, Mikes.”

“Frank in there?” Mikey nods back toward the bunks. God dammit.

“Uh...” Gerard rubs at the back of his neck. Mikey gives him a once-over and his expression immediately turns pained.

“Oh, god, never mind,” he says, and flops down on the couch to boot up the Xbox. “We’re due at stage four in, like, an hour though.”

“Yeah, alright,” Gerard says, “I’m just real quick gonna go...” he gestures vaguely. Mikey wrinkles his nose.

“Gee, I _really_ don’t wanna know.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Gerard says indignantly.

“Good, don’t.” Gee rolls his eyes (only a little because, really, Mikey’s a good sport) and finds his discarded shirt, pulling it on as he walks past. Mikey picks up his phone and Gerard says, “Hey, tell Pete I say hi,” and Mikey says, “Hey, fuck you,” and Gerard giggles, letting the door slam a little harder than usual behind him as he steps out into the blinding California sun.

                                                                                      


End file.
